Here I am again, after nine hours of sleep.  My finger is ready to recommence.

***

I found a spot near the start line, ready for all those riders to roll out.  A mass of motorcyclists, camera people and cars were part of the race staff.  And then we the crowd yelled out the coundown from “10” to “Go!”  The speed was incredible as the prime athletes started their pedals turning.

Wow!  What a rush!

And I had a plan.

I began walking to the Gent Sint-Pieters train station. If I really stretched out the legs, I’d have time to catch the 2:05 bus to Geraardsbergen – the town that was home to one of the most fabled climbs in Belgian cycling – the Kappelmuur.  “Muur” as in “wall” … 1.1 cobbled kilometres with an average gradient of 9.3% (maximum 19.8%).  Ouch!

There was a problem.  I had misinterpreted the tiny icon for the trip to Geraardsbergen.  It meant “train” not “bus”.  More brisk walking from one end of the station to the other.  I climbed the steps to Platform 7, looked to my right and saw the word “Geraardsbergen” at the tail end of a train that was pulling away.  (Sigh)

The next train was at 3:05.  And so began the calculations.  That train was scheduled to arrive at 3:55.  Usually Belgian trains are on time, but sometimes not.  Google Maps told me it was a 25-minute walk from the train station to the Muur but I’ve discovered that Google walks faster than me.  And by definition those 25 minutes would be uphill – a challenge for my much-better-but-still-recovering body.

A cycling website estimated that the riders would be climbing the Muur at 4:50.  That sounded like a half-hour buffer to me.  But who knows?  As I sat in Gent Sint-Pieters, a smile showed up on my face.  There was a possibility I’d miss the whole darned thing.

One detail that escaped me in Gent was that my phone charge was wearing down.  Oops.  Flying blind in Geraardsbergen wouldn’t get the job done.  And there were no outlets on the train.

I speeded off the train at my destination and searched for an outlet in the station.  There was one, which was the perfect number for me.  I plugged in at 4:00 and made the executive decision to charge until 4:10.  Ahh … the tightness of time.

Then I started hustling through town, staring at a tiny screen all the way.  A carnival was alive and well on the city streets.  Lots of music, candy floss and games of skill.  Here’s what the cyclists would see in a few minutes:

What you see is “moderately uphill”.  Soon it would just be one of those words.

As I climbed the cobbles, I was joined by other cycling fans timing their journey to the top.  The energy of expectation was brilliant!

The road narrowed, twisted and tilted up.  There was only room for spectators on the right side.

I walked up to two young men on a curve.  According to them, we were about a hundred metres from the summit. They said this curvy spot was the best.  We’ll be able to see riders coming up from below and then watch them climb beyond us.  Cool.

I stayed with the two guys.  It was 4:40.

About 4:55 a marshal blows his whistle and starts waving a red flag.  There’s a group murmur from below … growing.

And then the colours of cycling jerseys and the whirr of wheels:

I cheered my guts out.  “Bravo!  Allez!  Magnifique!”  A wall of yelling and clapping surrounded me.

Oh my God … I’m here!

I turned to my right.  Some of the fittest athletes in the world were straining upwards.  Their faces!  Their legs!  The wild calls of the crowd!

I will remember those moments for the rest of my life.  My favourite cyclist, Puck Pieterse, flashed by me in sixth place or so.  A mass of riders climbed together.  And later there were the stragglers … urged on just as stridently.

***

And then all was quiet

I was quiet

Life was deeply good